A Singaporean homecoming, of sorts

When America's first great female reporter, Nellie Bly, announced in 1889 that she would go around the world in fewer than the 80 days Jules Verne had attached to his fictional character Phineas Fogg, the nation held its breath. Young women did not travel unescorted in those days, and readers of Joseph Pulitzer’s New York World wondered whether the intrepid journalist could make the trip not only quickly, but safely.

Bly traversed the Atlantic, Europe, the Suez Canal, the Indian Ocean, Ceylon, Singapore, Hong Kong, Japan, and the Pacific Ocean, always finding a way to send back messages. By train she hurried east from San Francisco as people who had read of her exploits lined the tracks to cheer and wave. She made it back to Manhattan in … 72 days.

WORLD reporter Sophia Lee has begun a trip of only 57 days through Singapore, Malaysia, Indonesia, Burma, and other Southeast Asian countries, but she is similar to Nellie Bly in age and courage. She’ll send us regular reports of what she sees, feels, and does. —Marvin Olasky

SINGAPORE—This heat is nothing like the “sizzle and toast” heatwave Los Angeles endures for a season. No, Singaporean heat is all steam—like a soaked, warm towel flung in my face. It swelled my pores into volcano craters that erupted warm, salty sweat. I braced myself mentally before I stepped out of Singapore Changi Airport’s cooled incubator, but even so, my body reacted as though I’d time-warped into a new world.

But Singapore isn’t a new world, not to me. I grew up here as a Korean missionary’s kid from age 4 to 14— some of the more carefree, simple years of my life. Before I departed for this trip, many friends remarked, “So, you’re returning home, huh?” And my dear old friends in Singapore also asked with an expectant smile that pricked my heart, “Eh, do you feel like you finally come back home ah?”

Well, no, not really. Singapore is not home. Sure, I love all its food, even the infamous odorous durian. (I don’t understand what people are complaining about; it smells delicious to me.) I understand Singaporean humor, its culture and customs, and remember its smells, neighborhoods, fauna, public transportation, and yes, its weather. I had even attended its public schools, complained about its brutal exams, blended in with the other kids in my starchy uniform and clipped accent. Still, nothing in my gut and soul felt like this place was home.

But I had plenty of other feelings upon my return to this country where, as it turns out, my main purpose as a child was to make the best friend whose wedding I’m here to attend. As the airplane landed on the firm ground with a mild bump and then howled into its finishing race, my heart sang along in glee. And as I passed by the airport’s indoor tropical gardens and stopped to touch the leaves of the familiar native plants, memories long tucked into a mental drawer tumbled out like colorful beach balls bouncing and bumping in my mind. When I heard the snippets of staccatoed Singlish—Singaporeanized English that mixes multicultural vocabulary, grammar, and intonation—I smiled knowingly. And then when I spotted my two Singaporean friends rushing through the lobby to hug me, I could have jumped and danced, had my back not been so cranky from a 20-hour flight.

So what is home? For my parents, home is Jeonju, a down-to-earth city in South Korea, where most of our family members still live. For my brother, home is Virginia, where he met and married his wife and is paying off house loans. But I have no place I feel is home. Not Los Angeles, where I currently live. Not South Korea, where I was born but return to as a foreigner. Not Virginia, where I attended high school and experienced my most unpleasant memories.

I travel to Southeast Asia as a perpetual nomad. Perhaps that makes me a fair-minded traveler—I suffer no homesickness, I have enough emotional ties to feel passionate about the people and places, and I feel no culture shock because I am an ambiguous, porous sponge of various cultures, identities, and languages. This time, I come back to my childhood stomping grounds as a curious, probing journalist, armed with bundles of old memories and an empty sack for new ones. This time, instead of just accepting certain happenings and traditions as something that just is, I’ll be asking (and pestering) the locals with “whys” and “hows.”

WORLD readers, I invite all of you along on this trip with me. I will be your eyes and ears and noses as I bumble about these tropical islands, and I’ll deal with all the humidity and the travel wedgies for you. But in exchange, I ask for prayers. This region smolders with a smog of spiritual darkness I will describe in future posts.